


Sunward I've Climbed

by Framlingem



Category: Pan Am
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, Fluff, Flying, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 19:22:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Framlingem/pseuds/Framlingem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Making love in a barn is not a precursor to smooth flying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunward I've Climbed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spyglass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spyglass/gifts).



Colette's never made love in a barn before. Dean has, though, and surreptitiously checks her hair for straw before they venture back towards his folks' house. Getting to do it under the guise of a slow kiss, running his hands down the back of her skull and cupping the back of her neck, is a bonus. She smiles up at him, afterwards, hands on his chest, and informs him matter-of-factly that he's misbuttoned his shirt.

 _That's my girl_ , he thinks, and his eyes crinkle at the thought that the woman standing in front of him, rumpled and smelling of barn, with the early morning sun making a halo of the stray hairs floating around her head, is his girl. He kind of likes seeing her like this. She's usually so put-together outwardly, with not a hair out of place. He runs his hand through her hair again, and presses her back against the doorjamb to kiss her some more. The sturdy old barn takes her weight, and his, without a creak. She fits here on the farm.

Bridget would not have fit on the farm. Bridget fit in the cities, in the sky, with her blue eyes and clouds of golden hair. Colette, now, she's got a slower way about her, calmer, and her hair reminds him of flying over freshly-ploughed fields, and her eyes are like puddles of rainwater on black earth. He doesn't tell her that her eyes remind him of mud. He will one day.

He won't tell Ted that, ever. He'd never hear the end of it.

It's true, though.

******

Colette is in too good a mood to care about the strange looks Dean's parents give her as they say their goodbyes. The combination of utter humiliation and happiness makes her giddy, and when they stop for gas halfway back to New York, she kisses him quickly to distract him while she picks the key to the Studebaker out of his hands. She's in the driver's seat before he quite recovers.

"Hey!" he cries, grabbing for the keys.  
"We forgot to go flying," she says, with impeccable logic. "Alors, I get to drive, to make up for it."  
"What, last night was nothing?"  
"No, not nothing. Last night made up for other things."  
"But..." he sputters. But she's perfectly capable, really, and it's not like he hasn't been her passenger before. He gets into the passenger seat. "Promise not to crash it? It's the first thing I bought on my captain's salary."  
"Why am I not surprised? Of course a pilot would want a fast car."  
Colette looks over at him. He grins ruefully.  
"I don't like being grounded. But then, I don't think you do, either."  
Her hands tighten on the steering wheel a little. When she speaks, she is not the little girl who hid in a dark closet for hours, frightened to come out or make a noise, wishing for her _maman_. Her voice is steady.  
"Non. I like to see the sky."  
Dean leans back, stretches his arms out along the seats, runs a strand of Colette's hair absently through the fingers of his left hand, watches the clouds go by for a while.  
"Yeah. Me too."

******

It's lunchtime when they get back to New York. She pulls the car into a space about a block from her walkup, turns, hands him the keys. Dean leans in for a goodbye kiss, and she stops him, hands on his shoulders.  
"Don't!"  
"What? Why not?"  
"Someone might see!" Dean's confusion must be evident on his face, because she goes on. "Nobody can know. What if Pan Am finds out? They wouldn't keep us on the same crew. I'd be lucky to keep a flight position. It's not as bad as being married, but I don't have to be fired to be grounded."  
Dean can't believe this. This is _Colette_. This is the woman who stood on a shattered airstrip in Haiti and bargained for the life of a girl she'd just met, unafraid of repercussions. She'd been flushed and sweaty after a frantic ride through a jungle, she'd been so fierce, and he'd fallen the rest of the way in love with her right then and there. Colette does what is right, and doesn't hide it.  
"I don't understand, Colette. You've been in trouble with the airline before."  
"It's not the same!" she hisses. "Can we not talk about this out in the open, please?"  
"I thought you liked the convertible?"  
"That - that's not - don't change the subject!"  
She's got one leg out of the door. He reaches for her, and she stands up with a wordless cry of frustration, nearly catching his fingers when she slams the door shut.  
"I will see you at the airport on Wednesday," she says, and strides off towards her front steps, heels clicking angrily on the sidewalk. He watches her go helplessly.

******

Their flight to London is miserable. Laura seems happy enough - when Dean leaves Ted at the controls to visit the head, he can practically see a cloud of sparkles following her around - and Ted's been quietly mulling something over since they refuelled Gander, only mentioning anything other than business with an inane remark about the lack of icebergs as they left the Newfoundland coast behind. Maggie's antsy about something, though, and Kate's hands were shaking when she brought them coffee, so now Sanjeev is griping about the fresh stain on his shirt, and Dean kind of wishes they would all just shut up, because Colette hasn't spoken to him beyond the same kind of "good morning" she gives to the passengers, friendly and courteous and absolutely devoid of any affection. Dean hates it.

To make matters worse, something snaps on the landing gear when they land, and the _Clipper Majestic_ winds up needing a part that the London office is out of. It'll be a couple of days before they can fly the next leg of their journey south to Rome, and Dean hates London. He tunes out Ted's ranting about preflight inspections and why the hell didn't they catch this in New York, focussing instead on the heat and keeping an eye out for a good place to get a drink near the hotel. Bridget's London apartment is empty. She's gone. She's gone, and he's starting to think she was never really there to begin with, the way she faded into thin air.

Colette's in the lobby. He asks her if she wants to go grab a bite to eat, maybe a drink, but she says she's going to go to bed early. Maggie and Laura close ranks around her - Dean's never understood the way women seem to read each other's minds like that - and she vanishes in a flurry of suitcases and blue hats.

A hand lands on his shoulder. "Geeze, buddy," Ted says, his voice wondering. "What did you _do_?"

Ted. Ted has read books about women. Ted will know what to do.

"What do you do when you've pushed 'em too hard?"

"Apologize. Women love apologies. Even if you're not sure what you're apologizing for."

"I think I know. I just... I don't know what to do next."

"So you start over."

"That... that is a surprisingly good idea." Dean leans in towards the hotel receptionist, flashing her his best smile. "Hey, Rosemary. I was wondering if you could help me..."

 

******

Colette wakes early the next morning and dresses quietly, taking care not to wake Maggie, who is sprawled sideways across the bed and snoring softly. She closes the door behind her and heads for the front door. She'll find somewhere to have breakfast, then make her way to the National Portrait Gallery. She likes it there, quiet and peaceful, but not lonely thanks to all the faces on the walls to keep her company. It's a good place to think. She stops abruptly at the sight of Dean loitering by the front door.

"Good morning, Captain."  
"Morning, Colette."  
"Please get out of my way."

He rubs the back of his head, and she determinedly ignores the warm feeling in her belly at the way it makes his hair stick up.

"Look," he says, "I'm sorry."  
She lifts an eyebrow.  
"I just... it took me by surprise, is all. You fought so hard for that girl in Haiti."  
"It -"  
"It's not the same thing, I know. I just... I wish you'd fight that hard for yourself. And, well, look, when you do, I'll be there next to you, but for now I'll follow you on this one."  
Colette's having trouble keeping her lips pressed firmly together. Dean seems to pick up on this, and speeds up, emboldened.  
"I get that it's easier for me. At least, I think I do, and I'll try to keep it in mind. And, well, I'm glad you've got comfortable clothes on, because if you didn't have anything planned, or even if you did and don't mind changing your plans, I've found a small airfield just West of here with a Piper Cub, and, well. Not that I minded what we did instead, but I'd still really like to take you flying."

*****

It's a beautiful day, and the yellow of the J-3 Cub is bright against the blue sky, and she's flying. She thinks that if she turned south, she could see all the way home. This is even better than flying the _Clipper Majestic_ \- she feels like a bird, like a migrating goose, with the end in sight after thousands of miles spent with other birds on the same journey. As he guides her through the intricacies of flaps and rudder, Dean's voice is calm and competent. She can hear him smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from "High Flight", written by Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee, RCAF, who was killed in action in 1941.
> 
> Merry Yuletide, Spyglass. I hope this tides you over until January!


End file.
